“Well?” I asked.
In response, his brass began to quiver. It rippled, as though liquid. It expanded, shrank, twisted. I could feel the effort with which he was straining as something pressed against the metal. By the light of the candle, I could see something pushing outward. It was joined by another something. And another. Until five small protrusions emerged from the shaft of his barrel.
Fingertips.
Five fingertips. Straining to reach out.
An angry snarl filled the room. The fingertips disappeared back into the brass. The metal re-formed itself, once again becoming whole and solid. Once more, he was just a gun.
“DAMN IT!”
A talking gun.
“It’s not enough. NOT ENOUGH. I was sure that this was it. I was so close. I could feel the air on my fingers… I could… I… I need more.”
“There are no more,” I replied, shrugging. “No more mages, anyway. I suppose if you wanted, I could drag Cassa’s boys up here and see if you could get anything out of them. That is, if there’s anything left of them after—”
“MORE.”
His voice rang out in my skin, a single burning note that raced through my veins and set my body ablaze. I couldn’t help but scream and fall to my knees, my body forgetting how to stand, how to breathe, how to do anything but feel that pain searing through me. It smothered the sound of my breath, of my heartbeat, of every thought except one.
Fuck. He’s actually going to kill me this time.
I don’t know long it lasted or how close to the edge I drifted, but after a moment, the darkness at the edge of my vision stopped and then slowly began to slide away. The heat ebbed away, going cold in my veins. My breath returned in ragged gasps. Somehow, I forced my legs to remember how to stand.
“Gracious, that was rather rude of me, wasn’t it? Do accept my apologies, darling.”
I meant it when I said he’s a gun.
He’s a weapon. A force of destruction. One I didn’t understand at all when he first spoke to me and I made my deal with him. One I still don’t understand, even all these years later.
But the deal… I understand that.
The Cacophony… whatever he is… is bound to that form, that burning brass. And he wants out. Every time he feeds, he gets a little closer. I don’t know what comes out when he finally does, nor do I know what happens after he does. But in exchange?
He gives me every name on my list.
Every person who betrayed me.
Every former ally who gave me this scar that burns on my chest.
That deal is what I remember when he gets this way. That deal is what I remember when I wake up. After all…
I have nothing left.
Nothing but his burning smile and a voice in the dark.
“Shall we, then?”
I sighed, picked him up, and replaced him in his sheath around my waist. I made my way back to my bedroll and bundled it up, slinging it over my shoulder along with the sword. Together, he and I started down the hall and into the living room of the manor that had become a graveyard.
He felt heavier than he did when we came in.
“Well, a shame our friend Cassa was so unforthcoming. I expect our next lead will bring us closer to your desired quarry, though.”
The Cacophony’s voice was punctuated by a hissing chuckle. And while you’d think that a talking gun was a novelty, I assure you that the appeal runs thin when he’s feeling chatty.
“Though, perhaps you’ll be dead before then, no? I watched you hurl yourself into that battle with nary a care, barely an attempt to defend yourself. If your foes were not so inept, your carcass would be feeding the birds. But then… perhaps that’s the aim, hmm?”
I had no desire to humor him. Each step I took down the stairs and into the living room sent a fresh jolt of pain through my body. I hurt too much to walk straight, let alone to humor a talking gun.
I hurt.
But not so much that I couldn’t tell when someone was standing behind me.
I’d made it halfway across the living room before feeling eyes drawn on my back like a knife. And in the cold evening, a colder silence drew out between us. A slow breath seeped out into the darkness and filled my ears.
Easy, I told myself. Another ghost. Another vision. Not real… right?
I glanced down at the Cacophony. He sat, cold and still in his sheath. Which meant…
Fuck.
“I don’t know what you’re chasing,” I said without turning around. “If it’s wealth, I’m not your girl. If it’s fame, you don’t want it. If it’s revenge”—I paused—“you can try. You can draw your steel and I’ll draw mine and we’ll see what happens.”
No response, steel or otherwise, came.
“But if you’ve been chasing me, then you know me,” I continued, “and you know what happens once I draw metal. No matter what happens, it won’t end well. For either of us. Now you can make the smartest decision of your life and keep yours sheathed. I’ll do the same…”
My hand rested upon the hilt of my sword.
“But if you really want it,” I said, “just say so.”
I knew they were still there. I could feel their air, could hear them shuffle from one foot to another. And for a long time, it looked like air and noise were all they were going to give me.
Then I heard them take a step forward.
I heard the creak of leather.
My hand tightened around the grip of my sword and I knew I should have felt fear, anger, despair—anything but the eager rush that bade me to draw steel.
I had begun to do just that when they finally spoke.
“Well, shit.”
Or, rather, he finally spoke.
“I had this great dramatic thing I was going to say once you came down the stairs, but I’m starting to think it would sound a little pathetic after that.”
No steel. No blade. But I could feel his grin just as keenly. When I turned around, the first thing I saw was his knife of a smile, white and flashing in the dark.
“But then, what else should I have expected from Sal the Cacophony?”
Long and lean and well worn, he was a walking stick of a man who had seen too many miles and too few sunsets. A disheveled mop of brown hair draped his face and neck, despite the valiant effort of a braid to keep it in line. He stood with a slouch too easy and folded arms too cocky for the military coat he wore. And though the dark circles under his eyes and three-day stubble around his jaw conspired to smother it, even in the dark I could tell he was handsome.
Though I couldn’t tell if he was ruggedly handsome or he’s-going-to-say-something-that’s-going-to-make-me-punch-him-in-the-face handsome.
The difference is painfully thin sometimes.
“I don’t know you,” I said, more to myself than to him.
“I’d be fairly shit at my job if you did,” he replied. “I’m the sort of fellow who specializes in not being noticed, in whatever professional capacity that might entail.” Dark eyes lit up in the gloom. “Sometimes I’m a stalker, sometimes I’m a thief, sometimes I’m just a drifter walking between names and calling the shadows friend.”
Well.
Face-punching it was.
But either I was getting worse at hiding my contempt or he had been punched in the face a lot, because he immediately chuckled, holding up a hand for peace.